I’m not big into holidays. Not really my thing. I dislike Christmas music and easily get fired up about insane consumerism/materialism of the season (of which, unfortunately, I often participate in. ugh.) But this year, my goal is to embrace the holidays and learn to enjoy the nonstop twitter tirade of “Just tuned in to the 24/7 Christmas music station!” and “Starbucks finally has their gingerbread/apple cider/acorn delight lattes!” Why am I such a Scrooge?!
This year will be different though. I WILL BE A JOLLY GOOD ELF! Even if it kills me…
Who doesn’t love a good list?! Here’s some happenings since September 10th-
* Upgrade! Upgrade! (C’mon, who remembers Beyonce’s commercial for Comcast?! JB- I know you do! A sexy Beyonce dance to showcase just how fantastic the internet is? Awesome. And clearly effective.) Yeah, so the Bongs have moved. We reluctantly, no, joyfully, left our 400 square foot little studio in the NW for a house in the ‘burbs.
Who should be allowed to judge fashion? I can’t answer that, but I can tell you who should not legally be allowed to give their input EVER. Anyone who drives a teal/rust colored Geo Metro circa 1996*, that’s who.
Let me explain.
Recently a new friend and I were talking about our shared love of the writings of Henri Nouwen. He wrote about things of the heart and of knowing who you really are from an incredibly humble perspective. I’ll never forget when my bestie gave me the best literary gift ever, a copy of “The Inner Voice Of Love: A Journey Through Anguish To Freedom.”
Every year my little sister and I try to meet up in between our birthdays (hers is August 10, mine August 20). We’ve done this for the past three years and it’s a tradition I hope we never forsake. Three years ago, I visited Jennie while she was interning in New York. It was my first time in the city and she was already over it so we tried to avoid cliche toursity places (this was before we embraced our toursity ways and learned to proudly wear our cameras around our neck and don our fanny packs. HOT.) This weekend we received some pretty terrible news. I’m realizing that when I get stressed or upset I shut down and sleep. The Bong? He cooks.
During our honeymoon to Seattle, we had dinner one night at a place called Palace Kitchen. Oh, goodness. I won’t say that that was the highlight of the honeymoon, but it was amazing. I had clams for the first time and fell in love.
Anyone who knows me knows my love of eating crappy. Really crappy. Instead of blood coursing through my veins, I’m pretty sure that there are preservatives and artificial food coloring pumping my heart. By the sheer luck of good genes, I am fortunately not the 700 pounds I should be. So, when I watch movies such as “Supersize Me,” I just laugh at the poor schlubs who can’t enjoy McDonald’s as much as I can. Processed food? Yummy!
And then I saw Food, Inc.
Last week Portland hit record highs of 100+. I kept thinking all week that this shouldn’t be a big deal-I’m of hearty stock, being a third generation Okie and all, right? Wrong. I cried like a baby. Portland has yet to discover the only thing that makes Oklahoma survivable during the summer, a novel invention called AC. When I moved into my studio apt, now fondly referred to as the “Lovin’ Oven,” I was assured that no apartments in Portland have AC. Some Portlanders even called it “unnecessary.” I’m pretty sure that those same Portlanders cried this week as well.
If you think you’ve had the best taco in the world, think again. Click read more to prove yourself wrong and be glad that you are. And oh, if you know how to make guacamolito sauce, do share.
Here is the story of how the Bong and I came to be married:
We actually met at a wedding. That never happens. Only, it did. Two weeks later, the Bong was transferred to Portland. 5 months later, I packed up a U-Haul and we did the Oregon Trail. Then the Bong lost his job. R.I.P. Vidoop. Along with losing his job, he also lost his work visa making him an illegal immigrant. Solution: Marriage, of course.
As someone who has lived in the most obscure random places in the world*, the longing for a home intensifies each year. That and the fact that I HATE moving. But then, I have yet to meet someone who gets psyched about putting all of their crap into boxes, carrying it up the inevitable 3 floors and then leaving said crap in boxes until the next move. I digress. Home. Where you can just be. You can let the ugly out and it doesn’t frighten anyone. In the past, I have mistakenly thought that home would be destination, a finally resting place. A place where all my junk could have its own special and permanent place. Oh, but I’ve learned that it is so much more than that. Recently, I happened to fall into marriage most unexpectedly.
