Actually, it was kind of awesome. Other than the having no money, no job, no childcare thing, my life has gotten so much more amazing in the last few months. I’ve had to take a page from the Ice T Final Level school of playerdom –  in which one is reminded that a true player takes care of business first — and thus, the blog and many other things have been on the back burner. Now that my basic hierarchy of needs is once again fulfilled, productivity has returned.

For the foreseeable future, I will be working my homemaking mojo on a lovely former party-house that is transitioning into adulthood. It even has a name — Rosemont. I’ve always loved the idea of houses with names; houses earn names from being genuine landmarks of good living for sustained periods of time. Not to sound to woo-woo, but it does often feel as if there is a sort of groove of human energy here, the way one can feel, on an instrument or a tool, a groove from continued use. So, a perfect place for a faux-Martha to let loose some den-mother instincts.

Since Rosemont is a long-established residence, it’s fully furnished and mostly decorated. And, since my roommate has lived here for five years or so, he’s actually invested in constantly improving the internal workings of the place; he’s always bringing home random, useful found objects, rearranging furniture, drilling holes and nailing things up. Free from the hassle of worrying about that sort of stuff, I have turned my eye to the yard. First things first, I made a run to my old house, which is being foreclosed on, and rescued my babies!

Rescue mission successful!

I had about 7 peony bushes, all but one of which are in their third year. This was supposed to be the big show, but I’ll have to wait for next year. Still, at least they’ve made their way to somewhere safe, no longer at the whims of whatever random grass-cutting mercenary the mortgage company decides to hire. They aren’t looking so hot, but we’ve been having cold snaps, so as long as they live through the next few weeks, I’ll be satisfied.

In another demonstration of the greatness of Rosemont, I came home yesterday to find that my awesome neighbor Mark — a self-described old hillbilly — had brought over six starts while I had been gone. Looks to be four maters, a cuke, and a pepper — all heirlooms, natch:

I literally 'squee'd when I spied this awesome surprise nestled under the shade of the fence.

Which means this week I’ve really got to figure out some sort of set-up for a couple of vegetable beds. It looks like I’m just going to have to do it the old fashioned way — hoeing and some light amending, and hopefully a bit of mulch if I can wrangle it. No raised bed luxury for me this year, but oh well… I might still spring on a soaker hose, though.

And finally, I am slowly, slowly inching my way through a sweater. This is the smallest weight of yarn in which I’ve ever attempted to knit an adult-sized garment, so I’m pretty psyched. It’s Cascade 220 Sport in Camel (8622) . The pattern is Berroco’s Abrianna.

OMG, look at that tiny yarn!

So, that’s just a smidgen of what I’ve been doing, really. MMMB’s new season is starting, so there’s loads of dancing going on in my world. I’ve been working pretty hardcore on picking up a Samba routine, specifically. I’m sticking with the drums, practicing at least every other day, and, to my surprise, I’ve been playing some kind of music — be it singing, violin, keyboards, drums, or whatever — pretty much every single day. I’ve even been doing a bit of sewing. I’m not going to guarantee anything, but I am going to start trying to throw a few more blog entries out there for a while, kind of see how I manage. Until next time, fair readers!

I know you come from some fundie gospel-singing background or somesuch, so I’m assuming your science skills are pretty much nil. Even taking that into account there seems to be little excuse for you to find it appropriate to brag about the ability of “gurls” from California to melt Popsicles, as if this somehow made them unique. I’m pretty sure even fundies are on-board with the whole Fahrenheit scale and basic facts of life — like the temperature at which water freezes, for instance, or basic human body temperature, which, to refresh your memory, Katy, is about 60+ degrees more than the temperature of frozen sugar water. Even this non-daisy-duke-wearing, Jeep-less Kentucky girl can melt Popsicles with her hotness.

Also, to answer your near constant query: No, I do not sometimes feel like a plastic bag. That was just that weird dude in American Beauty, and he was clearly a nascent school shooter. Way to date yourself and reiterate your complete lack of relevance!

<3 jessi

Dear Enrique,

I’m pretty sure that there is no amount of prefacing you can do to make the assertion, “Tonight I’m fucking you,” somehow NOT rude as fuck. And creepy.

You know, your repertoire has pretty much evolved in exactly the same way as my experience of clubbing. You used to be the guy who would say ridiculous borderline-terrifying stuff like, “I’ll take away the pain,” and yet, you were hot and I was young and I’d think, “Well, he’s a lameass, but I’ll still hit it.” Now you’re the guy who I’d NEVER leave my drink near unattended. Because seriously, dude, with pick up lines like that and your total skeeziness (you did a song with Pitbull, dude!), how else could you possibly be planning to get in my pants?

Sincerely,

Jessi

Dear Kesha,

Oh, Kesha… dancing “like” you’re dumb? Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?

Also, I kind of love your voice. Please stop singing shitty songs and wearing fucking headdresses and basically being who you are and doing everything you usually do so I can like you.

<3 jessi

So this year, how about a gimmick! 11 for 2011!

1. Learn to play the drums at least as well as the little kid in Love Actually. I gotta have a benchmark and I think that’s fairly assessable and accessible. I’ve always wanted to give the instrument a go but drums ain’t cheap, so I’m taking the sudden appearance of a full drum kit in my dungeo— I mean, basement, as a sign. First step: procure a how-to book.

The presence of drums somehow makes the basement 1000% less terrifying.

2. Learn to salsa. I love to dance and I love Latin music like whoa, so why I haven’t picked up some basic salsa is beyond me. This is the year. First step: pick up a few how-to videos from the library.

3. Finish setting up my awesome workspace. I kind of love my room for once in the last 6 to 7 years. It’s full of pretty things I like looking at and being surrounded with and I love spending time in there. I want to love it more. In high school I always felt like my room was a functional place where could get away and do the nitty gritty of accomplishing myself and I really want it to be that again. I have the brackets, I have the drawers, now all I need is a warm day for spray painting and a little sweat equity and I’ll once again have a room of my own. First step: was acquiring all that stuff really, so next step will be to spray paint the drawers and hang the brackets, like I said!

4. Lose 20-30 pounds. Yeah, I know, cliche and doomed for failure. Except, maybe not. Since household-wide unemployment and lack of microwave, food-as-drug has been almost too much hassle to be worth it. I also live in a pretty cool neighborhood, so going out to take a walk doesn’t even sound like a huge drag. First step: count calories, and limit them within reason, for at least one month.

5. Sew a garment all by myself. I can’t really make this one “learn how to sew,” as I totally already know how. I just want to stop hating it and sucking at it (due primarily to lack of practice and impatience) so that I can make my own dresses. First step: make this bralette and tap pant lounge set.

Expect a sex-ay version if this tasteful one comes out well.

6. Learn to appreciate Jazz. I love Jazz Age fashion, Jazz Age cocktails, and Jazz Age literature — one would assume Jazz would blow mind and … one would be wrong. But oh, how I want it to! First step: actually manage to read a book on jazz appreciation; also, listen to at least two jazz recordings (length non-specific… could be an album, could be a performance of one song) per week for at least two months.

7. Get an awesome used bike and learn how to keep it in good shape. This is tied to a desire to somehow get involved with the local community bike shop at some point. I may put this off until warmer weather comes our way and more money comes along. First step: go to community bike shop.

8. Get a damn job. I really need to get an (at least) part-time job. I have a weird (as in mostly non-existent) work history, so this is more stressful to me than it should be. But I was good at school! And… nobody cares. First step: submit at least two job applications a week.

9. Design some knitting patterns and publish them. I don’t often knit from patterns anymore and when I do I typically so heavily modify them that I might as well have gone from the picture. I clearly need to get my knitterly crap together and pursue this. First step: finish the hat and mitt set I’m knitting for a friend, write up the pattern, and put it up for sale.

10. Learn some French. I’ve got a lot of books that I really want to read in French. Furthermore, if I ever want to further my academic career, the path I would take would necessitate reading knowledge of the language. I can do this, oui! First step: complete one chapter in my French workbook per week.

11. Finish the quilt of doom. It’s almost done and I finally have all the yarn to finish it up. First step: get back on track with finishing at least one square per week (I managed this for six weeks around October and then fell off the wagon).

Be done already, goddammit!

So that’s my 11 for 11. I will clarify by saying I don’t expect to take all of these first steps at once or anything. I do have a few more concrete-style goals, but I’m not making them official resolutions this year, as that would be out of hand. And of course there are some other, more vague resolutions, things without obvious first steps — work more on my friendships, try to be more social, try to be less hard on people, try to be more of the person I would like myself to be. These are ongoing and don’t really work in list format, so I only mention them in passing.

All in all, I feel good about my chance of actually accomplishing these. Since I originally drafted this I’ve even gotten started on five of them! So, yeah, here’s to 2011 and all the cool stuff I’m going to do this year!

Things have been… Yep. They’ve been. Topsy-turvy maybe? You know those books about an every(wo)man with an accidentally epic story that is really grounded in some particular era and so, of course, everything that happens coincides with the major events or trends of said era? I’m starting to feel like that character, like my life is really just guided by the invisible gestalt: We’re jobless. We’ve got a weird living situation. We’re separating. It’s just a whole lot of what the hell?, frankly.

Blogging has taken a backseat. I guess in that way I don’t fit the pre-set mold; and relax, I don’t plan on doing some inane task every day this year in a quest for some vague sense of self-fulfillment. Oh, so jaded!

But to end this update on a positive note — I saw a pretty amazing show last night. I had a most delicious beer (Breckenridge Vanilla Porter), I chatted, I danced and I even “woo!”ed a little. I went home and fell asleep feeling pretty content. Mostly I feel like I’m heading the right way again. Things are sad and happy right now, in that peculiar way that life always seems to blend them.

Soon, a New Year’s Resolution post, because I like lists! Now off to a job interview!

“What’s broken can always be fixed; what’s fixed will always be broken.” — Jens Lenkman

It’s not even the ridiculously long lists themselves that get me. Really, it’s the endless complaining about it. Dudes, if it drives you crazy; compromises your mental health; keeps you from enjoying the holiday; makes you pull an all-nighter on Christmas Eve when your name isn’t mentioned anywhere in the song Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer– DON’T FREAKING DO IT.

You are not an elf. Making yourself miserable in order to give a person an item — even a lovely handmade item — is, IM(ever-so-slightly)HO, still consumerist. You do not need an item to demonstrate your love. Someone who really loves you would surely rather you not be stressed to the breaking point at the most wonderful time of the dang year than that you cram in an ill-planned gift for them, along with the eight pairs of socks, two hats, and EFFING sweater you somehow thought you might finish in the 18 remaining days before the bomb drops on X-Day.

And that’s another thing: To the people knitting eight pairs of socks or some other crazy nonsense, you are NOT “sock-close” with eight people. If you are, you’re probably not really and you ought to focus on the depth of your supposed friendships.

Okay, if you are counting Nanas and Pawpaws and whathaveyous, then maybe you could get to eight, but dang people — socks are good year round. There are birthdays. There are un-birthdays. You shouldn’t really  give that many socks in a whole year, never mind blowing your wad on one little holiday. Socks are the big guns, people. They should be reserved for the people who gave your parents, you or your children life and really close, life-long friends who can’t knit for serious, legitimate reasons (like carpal tunnel or previous amputations).

Remember — you are a person, not one of Santa’s elves. As such, you are supposed to enjoy the holiday. It’s kind of hard to drink nog, be jolly, and generally loaf about and enjoy the bounty if you’re frantically knitting two socks at once while you desperately parse the intricate cable chart for the sweater you were suppose to start yesterday and, all the while, internally hand-wring over how you’re going to fit in the three pairs of mittens you just have to knit for the long-lost second cousins you just found out would be coming to Aunt Sally’s X-mas bunch.Yeesh.

If this sounds familar, seriously, put down the knitting. Or the recipe. Or the glue gun. Or whatever. Just put. it. down. and take a tip  that I picked up from my perpetually broke Uncle Trim: give cheap useful shit.

Good for everything, especially Christmas!

Think Duck tape, batteries, packs of decent-ish pens, playing cards, super glue, etc… I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone, “Do we have any *blank* in the house,” and damned if I hadn’t just gotten some of whatever it was from Uncle Trim. You can pull the same stunt with kids, just remember that here “useful”  is relative: crayons, markers, colored pencils, a good coloring book, a tub or two of weird colored Play-Doh (Seb thought I was the Second Coming for a $1 worth of black), jacks, jump ropes, or marbles are good bets.

Everyone likes candy… get someone a full-sized box of their favorite candy. And it doesn’t *have* to be homemade — actually, in this case it’s often better that it’s not. When people have a special treat that they love, it’s often very specific. If someone tried to give you homemade Reece’s Pieces or Reece’s Cups, for example, well, that would clearly be FAIL. The whole point is that they taste like bizarro-world peanut sugar… delicious, delicious bizarro-world peanut-sugar.

If it’s going to be homemade, feel free to be choosy on who you spend the effort on. For example, my best friend once made me Fleur de Sel Caramels; this was entirely worth it. Not only are caramels my favorite, salty caramels are my super duper all-time favorite, not to mention that I like foodie stuff and I appreciate handmade items. It totally goes on my list of awesomest presents ever and every once and a while I still wax poetic about them. However, when I mentioned this super thoughtful gift to my mom,  I’m pretty sure she said something along the lines of, “Why the hell would you *make* caramels?”  Aaannnnddd…

Mom gets a box of Turtles from Target.

This is how it should be. Handmade is only thoughtful if the recipient appreciates handmade. People you aren’t really very close to — and even many you are (*cough*mom*cough*) –aren’t going to feel offended that you didn’t handmake them commemorative fair-isle mittens or an expertly curated selection of holiday cookies from around the world. Chances are they’d also rather not feel obligated to prove anything via material objects and would, probably just like yourself,  simply like to enjoy your company in a festive atmosphere. If you really must get them something, I swear — everyone could use some Duck tape. EVERYONE.

It snowed and we made a snowman!

Life gives you snow, make a snowman!

As an aside, that’s a very disgusting ashtray doing top hat duty. I was particularly proud of that bit of innovative thinking.

To answer the curious –we’re in Lexington, renting a small apartment, dealing with James’ newfound unemployment. Things are neither good nor bad — they are very much in flux and apt to change at any moment. James is going through some personal stuff, so basically all I can do is roll with it and see what happens.

I’m going to try to start updating the blog at least weekly, perhaps on Tuesdays? I’m getting back into my knitting pretty hardcore and am hoping to start posting a few patterns, so expect a bit of that. I’m also trying to trim down our food budget quite a bit, so expect a few quick and cheap recipes, as well. What else? Who knows.

When I was 18 I went to Mexico City on a whim. Not my own whim, but the whim of my friend Mariko, who entreated me one evening over IM to join her there. I asked why. She said because it was awesome. I trusted her judgment on these things, so I begged my parents to scrape the money together and, at the end of the summer after high school graduation, I went to DF with my, unbeknownst to me then, crazy pointless-adventure-soul-mate Annie.

Most of you, I think, know this about me. It is my “Big Thing.” That whole year is a haze of memories of Mexico, of being miserable and in love, of being exhaustedly, brilliantly in love, of being lost and finding the rest of the wide world. Of jungles and deserts and arid highlands bathed in mist. Of being within spitting distance of the sun, flying too high and being burned, of running to the sea, of drowning myself in forgetting.

At least, that’s how I remember it. The journal shows me just how much processing I’ve done:

Ah, how relative the concept of "smelly" is...

Clearly, life then was not all Iris-Murdoch-novel all the time. A lot of it was waiting for the crappy washing machine in the hostel, uselessly trying to say things in Spanish, and being prissy about goddamn near everything. The thing that struck me most about my old self, however, was how much of myself I kept from myself. I was coy about writing things in my journal, about how quickly I mentioned them, for instance… as if I were going to trick my future self into thinking I was more mature and awesome than I really was. As far as current me is concerned, I just come off as even more painfully self-aware than I’d ever realized.

I planned for this to be exciting to discover for my 30 year-old-self... I'm only 27, but my heart did race with glee...

And then in the back of the journal was this little chimpmunk-like stash of bits and bobs. Bus insurance stubs ( I was a bit obsessed with these… they seemed so excessively morbid), metro tickets, the side of a KFC box (nadie hace pollo como Kentucky!), a metro map, pamphlets, a business card for a a crazy dog trainer we met at the beach (you may vaguely note that there is a bear in the left-hand corner of that business card, because that makes total sense…).

Awesomest of all is that green friendship bracelet. When I tell people about this now it seems cheesy, but ten years ago, at least, it was cool for people our age in Mexico City to go to the Coyacan market and get these, together and to give to their friends. There was nothing cheesy about it. Annie and I got these green ones. Mine broke off the day before I flew into Mexico City for spring break the following spring.

It sounds crazy, but it was an omen. Things changed forever. That spring break was my crazy love story week, and Pepe gave me a bracelet when I gave up the ghost. People always think that sounds, I don’t know, trite? Cheesy? It was the most romantic thing ever, people. And that bracelet, it broke off the day I arrived in Mexico City that summer. Like, I walked in the hostel, before I even met up with Pepe and everything started unraveling, and it just fell off of my arm. Then, of course, the long lost weekend of a summer began… but the unraveling started, quite literally, when that bracelet left my arm. His was white and cream.

So, the bracelets, I had forgotten I still had the first one. It was like finding a magic amulet or something, a real treasure. Rediscovering all of that, reading the ramblings produced by my ridiculous, ebullient, hopeful, lusty-for-life 18-year-old self as she literally came to life for the first time, well, no wonder I looked slightly crazy in the Heine Brothers.

And that quote at the beginning of this post, well, that started playing as I started writing… I played that song ad naseum as I wrote emails to Pepe. I think I really felt the sentiment toward life and I just took it out on him.

**********

Unrelatedly, I need to add a tiny rant on my current reading. Why are philosophers such goddamn bad writers? I realize a lot of what I’m reading are actually notes put together from various talks, but seriously, when you stop to write it down, that’s the time to make it clear. I think a lot of people don’t want to admit they find philosophic works to be incomprehensible because they assume that they are not smart enough for them, or afraid that someone else will level that accusation at them.

But I say, no. I’m comfortable enough with my intellectual capabilities. My reading comprehension is pretty goddamn good, by all accounts. In fact, about 70% of what I’m reading is fine and I am generally coming out with meaningful, useful insights. But, “Nothing less than the dissimulation of the dissimulated in totality, the dissimulation of what-is-as-such i.e. the mystery,” is the most gobbledygook piece of nonsense I have ever read, no matter what the hell it means. The philo-speak functions like some kind of secret code to keep out the uninitiated and it is FAIL. So, end rant.

However, things now are pretty much fantastically good. I go back to Slovenia in a month (and what a long, long month that will be, staying at my mom’s house… dear lord) and I have some new found direction in my life. My partner (and yeah, that word is pretty cheesy, but “husband” has become oppressive) has gone through a lot; spent some time out of character and came back the man I’d always suspected was in there. I no longer feel I’ve been sold a bill of goods.

I don’t really know what’s going on anymore and it’s exhilarating.

Went to Forecastle, saw Devo, Cake, Cloud Cult, and, most awesomely of all, Spoon, with whom I have renewed my aural love affair.

I go to Lollapalooza in about two weeks. The list of bands I shall rock out to is long, but topping it in awesomeness is Lady Mothereffing Gaga. Yes. I don’t care which way the wind blows with public opinion for her — she makes fantastic dance-pop music that doesn’t leave me feeling grossed out and I love her in an (non)embarrassing fan-girl way.

Went to Chicago recently. It was awesome. Stayed with Cheryl and it was kind of like being in a B&B. Nice sheets, fluffy bed, stylish living quarters and responsibility free. It was nice being treated like a guest — very restful. Ate lots of delicious food, froze our fingers and nipples off in Lake Michigan, got a bit of writing and reading done, went to the friendliest bar in Chicago and had an inadvertant foodie moment (saffron gin and tonic and honey roasted peanuts, accompanied by the best soul music mix ever), went to iO and lusted after adorable improv boys… All and all, love Chicago. Favorite vacation city ever. And love Cheryl. Would say favorite best friend ever, for symmetry, but BFFs don’t really work that way, do they?

Umm, and I came on here to discuss my Mexico journal. I’ll leave that for another time, possibly add some scans/excerpts, for the full time-warp-Jessi experience.

I’m just going to start writing stuff on here. If it gets crap, sorry!

The are the most insane mushrooms ever to cross my culinary path.

James had went to the market with an extensive list and came back with nothing but an average looking produce basket in a plastic bag. I was not pleased. He told me, nonchalantly, that the bag contained 1-up mushrooms. I did not expect much.

My surprise and excitement were pretty high and market fail was forgiven:

Two extra lives, score!

These were boletus, a.k.a porcinis. Giant, bulbous, insane porcinis of doom! We ended up using them in stuffed peppers… not the best choice. You could taste them but their flavor was delicate and might have been better served in a dish where they didn’t face any other veggie competition, like a simple pasta with garlic, butter, and tarragon.

It is helpful and full of awesome.

Yeah, it owns your laundry and, by extension, you. It actually has many useful sounding “programs,” some of which, namely the mythical European “wool cycle” that truly does not felt your knit garments, I am really jazzed to try out.

I gots no dryer but I do have a roof full of clotheslines. My house came with random useful items, one of which was a small bag full of ancient clothespins!

Making laundry twee since the Yugoslav era.

I went up to do laundry on the first pretty day and came back down vaguely in awe: I was hanging up my bicycle dress on a rooftop full of 40 year-old clotheslines with the most adorable vintage clothespins with a background of snow-covered mountain peaks and a goddamn castle on a hilltop. Yeah, take that anthropologie catalog!

Yes, I had a laundry photoshoot. Yes, I defended myself with, "It's for the blog!"

Random extra info: I finally got some burek!

It's decidely unphotogenic, fitting the M.O. of all the tastiest late-night snacks.

Burek is a flaky pastry thing filled with apples, meat, or cheese. There is a hipster-looking burek place on my street which serves passably good examples of the dish and its Taco Bell-like hours lead me to fear the possible effects of my sure-to-develop late-night burek cravings.